


Now I'm Hungry For Blood Again

by woakiees



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, First Order Poe Dameron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woakiees/pseuds/woakiees
Summary: “…you could find sweet religion in his eyes and build a church in the palm of his hand, but those eyes, that tongue — you would sin, and sin, and sin as he brought you to your knees. He was your confessional, his name your most desperate prayer, your moans an erotic hymn.”
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	Now I'm Hungry For Blood Again

You love him.

Present tense.

You love the way your name drips from his tongue like honey, and the way his fingers tangle in your hair, and how they pull, sending pinpricks across your scalp and shivers down your spine. You love how he seems to know exactly what’s bothering you before you even have a chance to say it, and how his eyes scan your face as if he’s committing it to memory every single time he looks at you, as if he could never possibly get enough of you.

You love him, and his stupid messy curls, and the way his brown eyes sparkle in the sunlight, and the taste of his lips.

And those lips of his, they taste so fucking sweet, because you know he loves you just as much. There’s no doubt in your mind that he loves you with every ounce of his being, with every fractured piece of his soul, set on fire with a single touch.

He had managed to climb his way inside of you, settle between your bones and make a home inside of your chest, but you had managed to do the same. You could feel his devotion for you in the way his gentle hands gripped your hips between rough sheets, and in the way his eyelashes fluttered across the skin of your cheek as he breathed you in.

You love him.

And Poe Dameron loves you.

Even if he was no longer whispering your name in the dead of night and stealing the breath right from your lungs with a single touch of his lips to yours, he still loves you.

A love like that can’t just die.

Living things die. Plants, animals, people. Parts of people.

But not love. Not _your_ love. It was infinite, and knew no bounds. It couldn’t just cease to exist, it didn’t make any sense. You refused to _let it_ make sense.

It couldn’t have just disappeared, dissolving into the night sky like a cloud of gray smoke. Poe Dameron could disappear, but his love couldn’t.

Or maybe, it could. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe he really was gone. Maybe you were holding onto some sense of false hope and false promises of forever. Maybe you were stuck in the first stage of grief — denial.

You were okay, staying there. Remaining in the first stage. You didn’t want to be angry, or bargain, or fall into a depression you doubted you would be able to pull yourself out of, and you definitely didn’t want to accept the fact that his heart no longer belonged to you, and that it was over.

You didn’t know it was possible to grieve the loss of someone who was still alive, still breathing.

Maybe you weren’t grieving. Maybe you were just feeling.

Feelings. Emotions. You were so out of touch with them. The numbness, the nothingness, it was all you knew now. You couldn’t remember the last time you had actually let yourself feel something.

Actually, you could. It was that last night — your last night with him, now over a year ago, where you spent hours memorizing the feeling of his tongue sliding across sweat soaked skin and how his lips crafted a sinful poem between your thighs.

You had felt everything then. Every electric touch, every fluttering beat of your heart. Sex with Poe Dameron was nothing short of spiritual; you could find sweet religion in his eyes and build a church in the palm of his hand, but those eyes, that tongue — you would sin, and sin, and sin as he brought you to your knees. He was your confessional, his name your most desperate prayer, your moans an erotic hymn.

You missed feeling.

You missed him.

And _Gods_ , you were determined to find him.

He was there, somewhere. Somewhere amongst the burning village, between the blood and the carnage lining desecrated streets. You could sense it. You’re with a person long enough, your bodies start to react like magnets.

You wanted to believe that maybe, he was looking for you too, that his soul still felt that pull to yours. Because it didn’t take you long at all to cross his path, nearly running into him as you both bolted around the corner in a deserted alley, and when your eyes met, for the first time in so long, he didn’t seem at all surprised.

You certainly were.

Surprised was probably an understatement.

Because seeing him, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, in a black uniform that you hated to admit fit perfectly in all the right places, with the curls you so loved tamed, cut short and graying — it made it real. Made the fact that he left real, that he gave up sleeping next to you at night for a cause he had once sworn to destroy by your side.

Another thing you had been in denial over: you didn’t want to believe that the rumors, or rather, facts, were true. That he had joined the First Order, that he was now flying a TIE instead of his precious black X-Wing. That he had traded peace for power.

You could only stare at him, still trying so desperately to cling to that denial, but then he smiled at you. He smiled at you, but his eyes — you had never seen the warm brown so cold. So devoid of emotion. So lifeless.

Poe Dameron, _your_ Poe Dameron, was anything but.

This wasn’t Poe.

The hope you had been holding onto immediately vanished, and you were finally slipping into that second stage of grief, because _Maker_ , were you pissed. Pissed at yourself for refusing to believe what everyone else had told you, furious that you had been too blind to see it. Angry that his promises to you had meant nothing. Angry that he left the Resistance, left you for _this_.

The anger was quickly replaced by another response. You watched in something akin to horror as his smile turned to a smirk, and the feeling that creeped its way into your chest — it wasn’t relief. It wasn’t relief or happiness or contentment. It was nowhere near any positive emotion you could think of.

You didn’t even know what to call it.

All you knew is that you wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk clear off his face.

“Fancy seein’ you here, darling,” he said, and you cringed. His voice sounded exactly the same, his tone as soft as when he was still yours, contradicting everything else about him.

“You actually fucking did it,” you scoffed, surprising yourself by how steady yet full of venom your own voice was. You had nearly expected it to crack. Infact, you hadn’t planned on saying anything at all for that exact reason. It just slipped.

“I see you’ve still got that mouth on you.”

“You used to like my mouth.”

“Oh darling,” he chuckled, though the sound held no humor, his smirk turning even more wicked than before. “If I remember correctly, you used to _love_ mine. Had you begging for it.”

He was right.

Used to.

Past tense.

“Still cocky as ever. Nice to know some things never change.”

“Everything changes,” he shrugged, slowly strolling closer to you, those brown eyes holding you to your spot.

“Not everything.”

Poe began to circle you, his gaze trailing over your body in a way that sent a shiver down your spine, but you worked so hard to ignore it, tried so hard to push it away. Tried to remind yourself that he wasn’t Poe anymore, he was just another member of the First Order. Your enemy.

Your hand twitched, knowing it should fly to your blaster, rip it from the holster. You knew you should spin around, and at least keep it pointed at him as you made your escape. You knew you would never be able to actually use it on him.

He had to have seen your fingers reach for it, or maybe he still knew you well enough to be just one step ahead, or maybe he was remembering his own training, because he was suddenly pulling the weapon from its spot on your hip and before you could even register his sudden movement, you felt the cold metal of the barrel press into your lower back.

“You’re not going to use that on me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re not going to kill me, Dameron.”

You felt the pressure let up, and even though it was only for a second, it gave you another ounce of courage to speak out against him, to let him know just how truly pissed off you were.

“You don’t have the balls.”

And he _growled_. He growled, and you huffed as your back collided with cool brick, the air catching in your lungs. You were so focused on trying to remember how to breathe properly, you almost didn’t notice when the tip of your blaster was suddenly jammed into the underside of your jaw.

Almost.

“Try me.”

His voice was threatening, eyes cold, calculated. He was watching your every movement, and for a moment you thought that you might’ve been wrong. Maybe he was going to kill you. Maybe Poe Dameron would end your life with your own fucking blaster.

But there. There was just a flicker of something else in those cold and calculated eyes as he watched you gulp, visibly showing for the first time that you were scared. Something not entirely warm, but it was still _something_. A memory, an old, nearly forgotten feeling. And that was enough for you.

“You’re not a killer Poe.”

He laughed, the sound downright caustic, dripping with poison. “You have no idea just how fucking wrong that sentence is, sweetheart.”

He removed his hand from your hip that you hadn’t even realized was holding you to the wall, and once it moved into your line of vision, you noticed that he quite literally had blood on his hands, crimson running down his fingertips, still fresh, probably still warm.

Poe of course noticed you blatantly staring, almost entranced, and his eyes narrowed, gaze flickering between his fingers and your face. You didn’t notice.

“Open.”

That caught your attention.

“Excuse me?”

“Open your fucking mouth, Y/N.”

You gaped. He couldn’t be serious, could he?

“Fuck yo-”

He took the opportunity, and before you could finish your sentence, his blood soaked fingers were moving past your lips, sliding across your tongue and down your throat as far as he could get them. You gagged.

“Suck.”

You had half the mind to bite him.

“Come on, my fingers aren’t the first thing of mine you’ve had shoved down your throat.”

Yeah, you bit him.

He hissed as your teeth sank into his skin, but he didn’t move, didn’t yank his hand back like you had expected him to. Fuck, you had been anticipating a hard smack across the face. None of it came. If anything, a hint of arousal found its way into his eyes.

“You always knew just how to tighten my pants.”

Your eyes widened, and you hated the fact that his words traveled straight to your core, made you whimper around his fingers.

He smirked again, devilish and sinful and fuck, why didn’t you hate this?

“Now suck.”

Why did you fucking oblige him?

You slowly, just a little hesitantly, swirled your tongue around his fingers, the tangy metallic taste familiar, and you still didn’t hate it.

“That’s it,” he cooed, brown eyes nearly black, blown with lust and desire more so than you had ever seen. It drove you crazy.

He pulled his fingers out of your mouth just a few seconds later, letting them drag along your tongue again, making you gag a second time.

And Poe laughed, raising his other hand, still covered in that sweet, heavy blood, to his own lips, his eyes fluttering shut as the taste hit his tongue.

Your stomach flipped, but you couldn’t look away.

 _Gods_ , he was crazy, but you were crazier for letting his actions shock your system and send electric jolts through your veins.

“Almost as sweet as your pussy.”

Maybe you weren’t _that_ crazy.

You had enough of your sense left to punch him, swift and hard, your knuckles landing square on his jaw.

And he only laughed again.

Poe really had lost his mind.

“What the hell happened to you?” you nearly gasped, your voice barely above a whisper, the weakness you had expected before finally finding its way into your tone.

He only shrugged. He didn’t need to verbally answer, you knew. He had always liked control, and power, and he had finally given into the primal side of himself that always hid below the surface — a side of himself he only talked about at 5 in the morning, and only ever to you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, finally averting your gaze. He laughed a third time, and you suddenly felt a familiar weight in the palm of your hand.

You looked down, your fingers automatically curling around the blaster that you were now holding. You couldn’t help but furrow your eyebrows. Every single action during this short exchange had you so utterly and entirely confused.

Looking up, you met his stare once again, lips pursed. You didn’t ask, not verbally, but your expression must have been enough of a question.

Poe tilted his head to the side, studying you carefully for just a moment, though his eyes weren’t any less intense, any less crazed.

“You wouldn’t be able to use that thing on me even if you really wanted to, sweetheart.”

“I’m not weak.”

He scoffed, and this time, he was the first to avert his gaze, staring down the alley, appearing almost lost in thought for just a single moment, that flicker in his eye returning, though it vanished as quickly as it came.

“No, you’re not. You never were. But you love me.”

Present tense.

He was right again.

You still didn’t hate him, couldn’t bring yourself too. Didn’t know if you ever could. And of course he knew that, but he wasn’t dangling it above your head, teasing you with it. No, he stated it as a fact, as if he had read it off a file from his datapad.

You weren’t weak, but you weren’t immune, either.

And he knew it. He knew it, and while he wasn’t exactly ignoring it, he wasn’t abusing it, either.

You didn’t understand.

And apparently Poe wasn’t going to explain, not that you expected him to. He was done talking, his hands moving behind his back once again as he started down the narrow alleyway once again. You were still frozen, and all you could do was watch him go, not knowing what else to do, but knowing that the blaster in your hand was useless. Why did he always have to be right?

But then he stopped, turned his face to the side just enough to look at you through his peripheral, and even from ten feet away, you could see that his jaw was clenched, and his eyebrows were furrowed.

“Next time,” he started, his voice quiet, though it dripped with acid, sending a chill down your spine and goosebumps across your skin. “I won’t hesitate.”

Still frozen, you wished that he had gone ahead and pulled the trigger.

Because even with a threat looming over your head, a threat that your instinct told you to not ignore, you just couldn’t bring yourself to believe him.

Still couldn’t bring yourself to hate him.

You still love him.

Present tense.

And he was gone once again, like a cloud of gray smoke.


End file.
